Labascate (but never yield)
by The Readers Muse
Summary: He was alive. Somehow, Brian was alive.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own NBC's "Hannibal." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** Part two to "The Right kind of Monster" series. Sequel to "The (right) kind of monster." I wanted to write a bit of pre-slash Preller where after Beverly was murdered, Hannibal came after Zeller next, only – unexpectedly - he bit off a bit more than he could chew and now the aftermath of that scenario is being carried on through Jimmy's point of view.

 **Disclaimer:** vampires, vampirism, blood drinking, gore, blood, canon appropriate violence, adult language, mild animal traits/behaviors, pre-slash, drama, angst.

 **Labascate (but never yield)**

 _ **Chapter One**_

He was covered in blood, carpet fibers and more than his fair share of cuts and bruises when he caught sight of him from the car. Voice caught in his throat as Jack slammed on the brakes the same moment he started fumbling with his seat-belt. Heart already halfway to him before he'd even stepped out of the car.

He was alive.

Somehow, Brian was alive.

He felt more than heard the bite of gravel as it dug into the soles of his boots. Hating the picture the scene painted as Brian remained alone despite being surrounded by people. The hollows of his face lit up a sallow blue and red in the flashing lights as every micro-gesture showed off the blood air-drying into his stubble.

A muscle in his jaw clamped harshly. Preparing for it as Brian's eyes found his through the crush. Snapping so tight that it made the last few steps self-conscious and the way he grasped the man's shoulders even more so. Awkward with relief and whiskey-tinted grief as he tried and failed to steady his breathing. Trying to be the rock Brian needed to lean on rather than the weight that was going to drown him as he swallowed down the backwash.

He hadn't just fallen off the wagon this time.

He'd stolen it and crashed it into a god damned telephone pole.

He'd been a quarter bottle in with his phone charging at 15% by the time Jack called to say they'd found him. That he was alright. Alive. _Breathing._ That Hannibal was dead, Brian was alive and they'd found the Chesapeake Ripper all in the span of less than six hours. And honestly, he didn't know how to deal with that.

The good thing was he wasn't the only one.

Because Jack had been double-fisting the steering wheel the entire drive. Talking tersely with someone on the other end of the line as they turned this way then that, seemingly without reason. Driving deeper and deeper onto the bush as Brain's name beat a tired, screaming tempo inside his skull.

They didn't talk.

He figured he'd probably puke all over Jack's nice suit if he tried.

But there was something salvageable about the moment considering how wrecked Jack looked.

It didn't make him feel better, but at the end of the day he figured it was something.

"Bev's dead," Brian monotoned dully, when he finally pulled away. Muscles stiff and awkward as he realized how fucking long it'd been since he'd even tried to give someone a hug - and even longer since he'd actually meant it. Trying not to notice as the paramedic frowned and did a quick check of the man's vitals. Barely holding back from screaming at the nice lady just trying to do her job as her brisk movements left him unsettled and angry on Brian's behalf.

Like no one was allowed to touch Brian but him right now.

Or maybe ever.

Still, he swallowed the familiar bubble of grief that still came along with Beverly's name and nodded.

"I know, Brian," he returned quietly. Viciously clamping down on the part of him that wanted to take his trauma literally and tell him exactly how many weeks, days, hours, even minutes it'd been since the call came in.

The man was blinking too wide. Jaw ticking back and forth as his left knee jiggled restlessly. Seeming to look right through the cluster of FBI agents watching him with various degrees of awe and professional suspicion.

"Brian?"

For some reason it warmed him when the man looked up immediately. Realizing in the same moment that he had no idea what to say as Brian's mouth tried to tug upwards. Struggling through a smear of half-dried red slathered thick in the far corner of his cheek. Like even now, Brian knew _exactly_ that he was thinking and had no problem taking the mickey out of him for it.

 _Asshole._

Unsurprisingly, he could admit he was more than a little in love.

Maybe he had been all this time and he was only just letting himself admit it.

Probably.

Definitely.

 _Christ.  
_  
He and important life decisions really had to stop meeting like this.

* * *

Brian's posture stiffened when Jack loomed suddenly over his shoulder. Flinching so sharply that the man's expression actually fell. Stance shifting into something that stooped his shoulders, temporarily softening all the authoritative lines as the Jack Crawford who spoke gently to grieving families, confused victims and young children made a surprise appearance.

Honestly, he didn't know Jack's voice could even get like that.

Especially for them.

"Zeller, I'm sorry to put you through anything more tonight- but we need a statement and we need to take you to processing. It's all a formality at this point, but you understand?"

Brian nodded numbly, wavering against the ambulance hitch.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Jack asked, hands loose at his sides but twitching with nerves. Clearly getting flashbacks to Beverly. Miriam Lass and every other person Jack had ever felt responsible for. "Anything you remember will be helpful. We have people at your apartment processing the scene. Anything we miss we can go through later at the office."

"Or it can _all_ happen later," he negated cuttingly. Eyes darting from Jack to Brian and then back again. Noting the sweat starting to bead on his lower lip. The blanching grey pallor. The convulsive swallowing. The-

"I need an evidence tub, now!" he yelled.

He managed to jam the clear plastic tote into Brian's hands just in time for the man to start gagging. Throwing up a nightmare of blood and god knows what - far more than he figured there should ever be - as he kept his hands tight on Brian's shoulders. Trying to steady him as half-digested blood flecked foamy and thick across his filthy hands.

Neither of them were really listening when Jack started barking orders. Not even noticing the sudden absence of the medic who'd stumbled off to be quietly sick along with three or four others. Leaving him and Jack to watch the plastic container stain itself a thick, gory crimson. On and on until there was nothing left for Brian to give but dry heaves and whimpers.

It took a long time for anyone to even _breathe_ loudly, after that.

"For a fancy guy, he sure tasted like _shit_ ," Brain commented into the horrified quiet when it was all over. Wiping vomit off his chin with the mash of tissues he passed him as someone in the background started retching again. Head still hanging low as the lumpy, congealing red sloshed depressingly in the basin.

He wasn't sure if the appropriate response was to laugh or cry, so he did a little of both.

* * *

Brian's hand was firm around his wrist. Almost fisting his jacket sleeve when Jack tried again. This time dragging along a green looking agent who looked like he'd rather be on the moon without a space suit and a no-nonsense woman with a silver-tinted French braid who was already looking at Brian a bit too apathetically for his liking.

The hand around his wrist only tightened when Jack sank down on his haunches in front of him. Grounding him firmly beside him as the younger agent fumbled with his camera. Trying to line up a shot for evidence that wouldn't have him somewhere in the frame.

Still, Brian refused to let go.

It happened sometimes at crime scenes where there were survivors. Sometimes a victim saw something familiar or just comforting in your face. Latching on to the first harmless looking person in the room for assurance as the worst day of their life turned out not to be a metaphor.

He was ashamed to admit that most of the time it was an annoyance. He knew it sounded heartless, but it was something that usually hindered an investigation than helped it. Forcing you to hand off your equipment to someone else and help that person work through everything from the crime scene to the ambulance, sometimes even all the way through evidence processing.

But it was different this time because it was _Brian._

It was Brian with the shell-shocked eyes and bloody face.

Brian with the cuts and gouges littered down his torso and upper arms.

Brian with the day-glow bruises.

Brian with the stomach full of blood.

Brian with bits of the Chesapeake Ripper stuck between his teeth.

Brian with the burgeoning PTSD and vacant stare.

Brain with the-

"It won't take long, I promise," Jack told him almost gently. "You need to be processed for trace evidence. Everything has to be by the book. No mistakes."

"Can you stay?" Brain asked, ignoring Jack in favor of looking at him with a blank stare that didn't quite measure up to the open desperation behind the words. Knowing the cost of the feelings behind them as his cheeks flushed with discomfort on Brian's behalf.

"Yeah, of course," he answered immediately. Nodding for the two agents shadowing them to back off and take his kit to the car. Knowing it was better this way, regardless of the part of him that wanted to do this for Brian. To process the scene and just get this nightmare over with as soon as possible. But the longer he thought about it, the more he realized this was better. Brian needed him and there was honestly no where else in the world he'd rather be.

Come to think of it-

Hell, he could do _better_ than just stay.

"I'll do it," he said hurriedly, half lifting Brian's hand as he twisted and stumbled back to his feet. Feeling like he'd aged thirty years between now and that last phone call. The one that'd sent him tripping over the stool in his kitchenette in his rush to fling his glass of whiskey into the sink and race his heartbeat to the car.

"You sure?" Jack asked. Blessedly not voicing what he already knew. That it was less about him being sure and more about his ability to be impartial and by the book when it came to the actual science.

"Absolutely," he answered, stepping a couple inches away - as short as his human leash with allow - before he continued. "I want to. He needs me to, Jack. And so do I."

Jack nodded, ignoring the blaring ring of his phone in favor of gesturing to a handful of milling agents to follow him deeper into the crime scene.

"Alright. Get it done. I want him checked out at the hospital before you do anything."

He nodded vigorously for the both of them, considering Brian wasn't listening.

In fact, the only reason he knew Brian was still awake was that the man looked up as they pulled away from the scene. Watching the fading crowds and flashing cameras until there was only muted light and the idle threat of darkness.

He didn't let go of Brian's hand until they pulled up in front of the hospital.

And even then, it was a near thing.

* * *

 **A/N:** There will be one more chapter to this part of the series, play stay tuned. Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think.

 **Reference:**

\- Labascate: to begin to fall or slide.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own NBC's "Hannibal." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** Sequel to "The (right) kind of monster." I wanted to write a bit of pre-slash Preller where after Beverly was murdered, Hannibal came after Zeller next, only – unexpectedly - he bit off a bit more than he could chew and now the aftermath of that scenario is being carried on through Jimmy's point of view.

 **Disclaimer:** vampires, vampirism, blood drinking, gore, blood, canon appropriate violence, adult language, mild animal traits/behaviors, pre-slash, drama, angst.

 **Labascate (but never yield)**

 _ **Chapter Two**_

"Somehow this isn't how I pictured it," Brian muttered later, when he was stripped down to his shorts. Surrounded by sterile stainless steel and about four dozen different evidence containers as the stream-lined curves of the lab echoed in spite of their best efforts. Tone flat, but somehow still playful. Allowing him to imagine how Brian's voice could've been damn near husky if it hadn't been wrecked from dry-heaving and tainted by the lingering aroma of watered-down vomit.

"Picture what?" he shot back without even thinking about it. Wiggling a suggestive brow. Trying so hard to be normal that he figured he was in danger of straining something. "That this would be how I finally got you naked?"

He completely ignored the lab-techs as he passed them the trace evidence to log and label. Too focused on Brian, the way he was still wavering unsteadily and getting this done the fastest way possible to care about any hurt feelings. Already well aware of the crowd lingering in the hall and the reporters lined up outside for a glimpse of the man who'd killed the Chesapeake ripper.

His expression pinched deep lines around his mouth when the agent at the door turned away yet another nosy-nancy. Glancing up when the hush of voices permeated their private bubble of trauma and dissociative PTSD. Probably some well-wishing colleague or just straight up pompous asshole that figured someone other than them was getting too much attention.

 _Ugh._

It made his skin crawl.

They'd barely been in the building two hours and the vultures were already circling.

"Keep it in your tighty-whiteys, Lothario," he sang instead. Knowing Brian well enough to apply just the right amount of humor without appearing coddling. There was a time and place for it and it certainly wasn't now. Right now Brian needed the familiar. He needed banter and over-done humor. He needed science puns and just a hint of the mild flirtation that made up their conversations lately. "Lets at least wait until you're cleaner and a bit less traumatized shall we? Give me some credit. I do have _some_ scruples, you know. Worn as they are."

Brian's smile was tired, but still there when he looked over at him

And for now, that was enough.

* * *

"Who should I call?" he asked carefully as Brain pulled on one of the shirts from his go-bag in the locker room. Showing off a littered canvas of bruises and sutured cuts, but looking a hell of a lot more human with the worst of the blood and dirt washed off after they'd finished processing.

"You know there's no one," Brian answered flatly. One eyebrow arching tiredly as he patted the pockets of his jeans. Pulling a face when he found no keys, wallet, cell or even his badge.

God knows where they were, honestly.

Maybe on Hannibal's body.

Maybe in his apartment.

Maybe in custody.

They'd find out tomorrow.

Probably.

"Well, then come on," he said decisively, grabbing his jacket and keys before heading towards the underground parking lot with a single-minded sort of determination he barely recognized. "I'm taking you home."

"'Kay," Brian breathed behind him, soft and exhaustedly restless as he looked longingly at his leather jacket hung up beside the flume hood. Both of them knowing basically nothing he'd been wearing was even _close_ to being salvageable.

" _My_ home," he clarified, once they'd made it to his sedan. Hating that the man hadn't beat him to it like he usually did. "I think yours is still crawling with feds. Your neighbors called in a disturbance by the way, so you might want to send them a fruit basket or something. By the time it'd passed through the right channels and the deputies learned you were FBI, you and Hannibal were long gone. He left a few presents, enough for everything to get crazy. Either way, I don't think you're getting back in there anytime soon."

Brian's nod thunked his head against the glass of the passenger door. Making him wince and watch him worriedly out of the corner of his eye as he eased the car through the check-point gate and onto the road. Already so sick of the silence he could scream.

* * *

"It could have been you," Brian rasped. Nearly sending him right through the sunroof when they were stopped on a red a couple blocks from his house. "He could've gone after you before he came after me."

He swallowed hard, blunt nails digging into the steering wheel as he fought for words. And not just the right ones, either. At this point he'd take pretty much anything.

"I'm glad he didn't," Brian added after a pregnant pause. Still not looking at him as he leaned up against the window. The circles under his eyes lit up by the pallor of the changing light. "I'm glad it was me."

 _What did you even say to something like that?_

* * *

He didn't fuck around. The moment they passed through the front door he was all business. Leaving Brian to watch the cat escape under the couch. Wavering unsteadily in the boot-room as he charged past him and turned on what felt like every light in his house. Making sure every square inch of the place _glowed_ – radiating good intentions and warmth - before coming back through the kitchen to tow him down the hall.

The sad truth was he was too tired for anything more than Brian could handle. Which apparently involved bullying him into the shower with the better water pressure and then a spare pair of PJ pants that barely kissed his ankles. Crowding him politely but firmly into the guest room with vague promises of breakfast from their favorite place in the morning- _holy god_ , it was _ten am_ \- before saying goodnight and leaving the hall light on.

Because romantic intentions aside, he was honestly getting too old for this shit.

Brian had just taken years off his life and he couldn't even be mad at him about it.

He was tired of messed up cases and even more messed up killers. He was tired of the late night phone calls and somber funerals. Tired of close calls and Brian still not answering his phone on the tenth ring. He was tired of Will Graham and his continuing orbit of crazy that seemed bound and determined to ruin everything it touched. He was tired of having to hold himself back from what he wanted – or more to the point – _who_. He was tired of Jack's voice telling him something had happened. With sobriety being just another word that'd ceased to have any sort of meaning when it came down to how he slept at night.

He was tired of being tired all the time and he had a feeling it was mutual.

Still, he wasn't exactly surprised when his bedroom door creaked open less than an hour later. Back-lighting him in a halo of energy efficient bulbs as Brian stood awkwardly in the hall. Blinking and quiet like a displaced child, but somehow a hundred times more wounded. Standing there awkwardly until he sighed and twitched the covers back in sleepy invitation. Watching through heavy lids as Brian climbed in with an open hum. Something significant settling in his chest the longer the moment lengthened. Proving itself not to be a dream in the best and worst of ways as Brian's bare feet chilled across the back of his ankles like an embarrassed ghost.

They adjusted quietly and with far little difficulty than he'd expected. Navigating the ratio of sheets versus comforter and the occasional brush of chilly toes against bed-warmed skin like they did this every day instead of never. Refusing to think too hard about if this was them moving too fast or in the wrong direction entirely, in favor of reminding himself that Brian was here. _Alive._

He was almost asleep when Brian spoke again.

"I wanted to kill him," he admitted quietly. Whispering it raggedly – close enough that it might as well have been against his skin as the man huddled fractionally closer. Dropping bomb-shells into a dust-mote eco-system as the odd slat of sunshine made itself known through the gap in his blackout curtains. "I could've restrained him. I could've tried. But I didn't. Does that make me a monster?"

"No," he said decisively, keeping his back to him. Knowing he wouldn't be able to get it out if he could see his face. " _You're here._ That's what matters to me right now. It'll be the only thing that matters to me today, tomorrow, hell- probably twenty years into the future. People are dead, and I still mean it. Does that make me a bad person?"

He couldn't help but try and picture it.

How it'd all played out in that clearing.

Had there really been a moment where Brian could have brought Hannibal to heel?

And did he care if there had been?

The answer was surprisingly easy.

"But even of it does make you a monster, maybe you were the right kind," he said after a moment, gaining confidence as the shadows chased one other across the ceiling. Blinking away the after image of Brian sitting on the ambulance hitch, lost and small in a shock blanket. "The one that was needed to make things right. Maybe there was a reason it happened like it did. I don't know, maybe there was a purpose behind it. A reason why you were there. Because it had to stop. Before we lost anyone else. Before-"

The hot flush of humidity and salt-tears that followed went unmarked for both their sakes as sleep slowly eased its foothold firmly back where it belonged. Taking them down together until - for the first time since they'd lost her - Beverly started smiling in his dreams.

* * *

 **A/N:** This story is now complete. Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – Stay tuned for another part of this series, coming soon.


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